Wednesday, July 30, 2014

The Bell-Ringer (The prologue to a book I actually AM supposed to be working on.)

Prologue—The Bell-Ringer

Orange light spilled down from the
horizon like a dry sea. Where the waves crashed, dust was left dripping from
the fields and the hills, clinging to the air and the lungs of those who
passed. In that light, all was gold.

Two men, slathered in that dryness, one
soaked in the weight of long furrows and the other a longer road, sat in a pool
of shade, drawn together by nothing save a common thirst. A thirst for water.
And a thirst for knowing.

“Strange things,” said one man knowingly,
with a slow nod of his head, and a brief stroke of his dirt-blackened hand
through his dust-browned beard. “Strange things have befallen these parts. I
will tell you that, right off. But if you’ll be wanting more than that from me,
you’ll be needing to share yourself.”

The other man nodded in response, and
took a drink. He was a smaller man than that across from him, and by
comparison, nearly clean. “Strange things have befallen all parts.”

“True enough,” offered the filthy plowman,
as he turned his thoughtfully crooked brow towards the furrows, before him, and
the road, in whose shadow he lay. “But I could have told that to myself. These
ears have heard much, stranger; you’ll be needing to dig a bit deeper to find
something as they don’t know much of.”

To this account, the stranger seemed
willing to pursue. He leaned forward, and now that the dusty hood had been
removed from his head, his details could be more easily made out. Eyes of the
most severe and ravaging sort of blue shone out of his weathered face with such
intensity that the bearded frowner did not at first notice the brightness of
his hair or the strength of his jaw, though these came in turn. “Isn’t it
amazing,” said the stranger, “That everyone seems to know the secrets that no
one is allowed to tell?”

At this, the large man chuckled. “Yes,
that I’ll grant you. And I suppose, though I don’t know much of you, to speak
of, that secrets are the trade of a man such as you?”

“Sometimes,” replied the other.

“Then I think that we are not so
different. You have your trade, and I have mine, and we both grow weary of our
toil beneath the sun. We tumble into shade, now and again.”

“Indeed,” this from the traveler. “I am,
I suppose, a merchant of secrets. Though I attempt to avoid being their cultivator.
A friend of mine once said that all things planted in the darkness must sprout
forth into the light, eventually.”

The farmer lifted his eyebrows. “A wise
friend.”

“Perhaps,” said the other. “One
accustomed, at least, with nature. Secrets grow in the hearts of men, as grain
grows in the soil. In the darkness, they blossom. But they outgrow the
darkness, in time, and they spring up.”

“And you are the dealer of such seeds?”

“I am. I carry them. And when necessary,
I plant them. But more importantly, I prepare them for their bursting forth.”

“Tell me a secret, then,” said the dirty
man, crossing his strong arms, and leaning back into the hill, once his throat
was wetted enough, and the skin lay beside him. “And I will, perhaps, give you
an answer, if it is an answer that you seek.”

The traveler laughed. “Would you give out
your crops for so little?”

The farmer smiled wornly. “Very well.
Tell me more about this trade, if not that. You have made me curious, and that
is no small feat.”

Pointing his eyes briefly at the far edge
of the sky, where a razor drew out the line between blue and gold, the stranger
spoke quietly. “We are surrounded by secrets; we are all their merchants, their
planters, their tenders. We are all gardeners.”

“Go on,” prodded the farmer, after a
pause.

“The spring is such a secret. It comes
in, quietly, planted deep beneath the leaves, when the snow falls upon them.
And there, in the dark, she grows. The winter knows nothing of her until the
time comes, until the darkness can no longer contain her, and she bursts forth.
The greatest secret ever kept. And everyone knows it.”

With an unsettled pinch to his brows, the
farmer said quietly, “Are you a poet and philosopher as well as a merchant?”

“Perhaps.”

“And a traveler as well. That sword you
carry, can you use that too?”

“I can.”

The farmer narrowed his eyes. “You are a
great many things, then.”

“We are all a great many things.”

The man laughed, one long burst, and then
settled back into his seat against the bank. “Very well,” he said, rubbing more
dirt into his beard than it could hold, “you have dully impressed me, even if
you have given me nothing to speak of. You are an educated sort, for this part
of the world. Many times I have sat here and had my drink with strange men.
Perhaps you are the strangest of them all.”

“I would not be surprised,” said the
traveler, with a small helping of a smile that he did not seem to indulge in
much.

“Whether you are or are not, I will
answer a question of you, if I can.”

The question came promptly. “What do you
know of the AllDragon?”

Another laugh rang into the orange sky,
longer than the last, but settling no deeper than the throat. The man’s eyes
were still hard. “I know what everyone knows,” he chuckled.

“How do you know it?” Asked the stranger,
seeming to lean closer whether he did or not.

The man shrugged. “I suppose I heard it
as a boy.”

“Illegally.”

“Perhaps.”

“The story is forbidden to tell. But all
men know it, don’t they? Why?”

The man looked puzzled. His frown
deepened. “It is a legend. And an ancient one.”

“Yes,” the stranger smiled again, a very
calculated, measured sort of smile. “One of the best kept secrets in the world.
And everyone knows it.”

The farmer chuckled, and this time shook
his head in amusement. “I suppose that you are right.”

“Do you believe the legends?” The
stranger pursued, to which his companion sighed.

“I believe in few things. I believe that
there is a force in the earth that makes the wheat to grow. And I believe that
such power may be prevailed upon, by the touch of the rain and the sweat of
man’s labors. Nothing more than that. And when it comes to belief, it benefits
us little, in these parts. I do not believe in the legend. I have no reason to.”

“Yet,” the traveler set those eyes
heavily upon him, “you believe that spring comes after the winter.”

“Yes,” the farmer muttered. “I have lived
through enough winters, this last one only so recently passed as it was. I’ll
ask you this, stranger: if the legend is true, and the AllDragon lives, then why
hasn’t he come? Mind you, I’m not complaining. I’ve got it right, here in this
dirt, lowly as it may seem to such important types as you. But there are
others. Those up north, it’s their legend. Why hasn’t he come for them?”

He was relieved when the stranger lifted
his gaze, and hung it back on the horizon. “Spring must wait until the right
time before it can arrive. The winter becomes old; the hammer of time must be
lifted, poised to fall. The arm that wields it must grow strong, for it must be
strong enough to split the world in two. Spring comes in her time. She always
does. Sometimes, she just needs to be awakened. Sometimes, she needs a
bell-ringer.”

The farmer did not address him. He
narrowed his eyes, and crossed his arms at the strange man. “You might want to
be careful,” he said at long last. “People don’t talk like that around here.
And oft times, they don’t take too kindly to those folks that do.”

“Careful,” said the man with a distant
tone. “Yes. Careful.” His fixed stare, so intent upon the line that separated
sky and earth, as though he was trying to read some hidden words, tucked into
the crash of color. Eventually, he broke his eyes away, and turned his
attention back to the farmer. “One question more,” he said, “and then I will be
off.”

“Ask it.”

“I have heard tell,” he said, “of a young
woman who lives not far from here. She is famous, in her own way; even as far
away as the border.”

“Nonsense,” laughed the man. “No one is
famous out here.”

“She is,” the other argued. “The story is
that she found a boy in a forest, and that she took him in, though she was
barely fifteen years old, and raised him by herself. The story also says that,
by now, she has several such children under her care, all orphaned, none of
them her own. They call her many names, and none of them right. Around here,
they simply call her ‘the Virgin.’”

At these words, the visage of the farmer
darkened, beneath his mask of beard and dirt. He raised a meaty hand and
pointed a chipped nail. “Now you see here, stranger,” he said forcibly, “I
don’t know what your business is. But if it be ill towards that angelic young
creature, so help me, I’ll tear you in half with my own hands.”

“I mean her no harm,” the man said with
defensive vigor. “None at all. In fact, I mean to do her as much good as I can.
You know her?”

“Aye, I know of her,” he said gruffly.
“Everyone around here knows of her. And a more divine creature I’m sure there
cannot be. What is your business with her? I’ve a mind to know that much before
I let you got a step further, you mark me!”

The stranger did not seem affected. “I am
looking for someone—a secret someone, before you ask. And I have reason to
believe that she could help me.”

“If that be your business only, then be
about it prompt-like,” replied the farmer with the same coldness. “But you mark
me. I’d kill you myself, if I thought as you’d be any harm to her. And so would
the whole countryside. She’s a dearly loved thing, that child.”

“I understand you perfectly,” said the
stranger, eyes passing back along the path he had so long walked. “If I carry
on this road, will I find her?”

“Yes. In a small village called Eastgate,
though I’ll tell you no more.”

“You have told me what I need. Thank
you.” With this, he took up his water-sling and pushed himself up, onto the
road again. He straightened the sword in his belt and pulled the hood back over
his head, though he wore no cloak to hide the rest of him. “I thank you for
your hospitality, friend,” he said.

The farmer had already risen, donned his
own sling, and returned to the scene of his plow, which he lifted back up
easily, and set into its furrow. “Good fortune be with you, stranger,” he
declared. Then, as an afterthought, added, “I should warn you. There’ve been
words spread about wild dogs in the area. They hunt about after nightfall,
killing flocks up in the hills. I’ve never heard of anything like it, myself.
Strange things.”

To this, the mysterious man with the
dusty hood let out a long laugh, aimed at the air. He let his heavy eyes dart
to the skyline, as though to pin it down, before he turned back to his brief
companion. “Dogs?” he repeated, speaking through smiling lips and frowning
teeth. “No. Not dogs.” And then, with a nod of farewell, he allowed the last
words, “Strange things indeed, my friend. But stranger things are waiting yet.
Still… spring will come. She just needs to be woken up.”

And with that, the bell-ringer turned. He
eyed the road, and then he set his feet moving along it. The sinking sun draped
off his shoulders like a cape, until finally its splendor faded from gold to
gray. He shrugged it off, and shrouded in dust, the bell-ringer hung a hand on
his sword, and let his eyes hang on the line. The sun would rise, there; soon.
When the darkness could no longer contain the secret of its coming.

He filled his nostrils with night-time,
and he pushed on towards Eastgate.

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About Me

My name is Jeff. I am a writer of words, and a servant of King Jesus. Lover of good books, great coffee, dear friends and sunshine, living in a world forged by words, in a land spun from golden summers and grey winters. I see things differently, and I write what I see.